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john-edward-smallshawPoems
It is art that oils the moving parts of me the free flowing nectar in the seed of me, art in ******* tips and the half full skips, the 'tramps' that ship the coal around the coast. I play host to the wonder of words that make up the rhyme, more 'fog on the Tyne' the lowlands and highlands within these Islands and bridges to cross, It is art in the heart and what we see with the eyes,love it,despise it,ignore or get wise to it, everywhere I look, I see that someone took time,moulded , transformed it and changed forever this world a bit and every bit helps. My fingers are lazers ,blazing out art,starting to burn in every sentence that turns and turning to light, gutters that utter to me prophecies and in the pharisees I see only samaritans who give salute to the pimps and the prostitutes,the Kings and the courtiers,those who buy and who sell,who are milled in the gin of it,the thin and the quick of it,tied to the wheel in the cockpit and spitting out what could be me for the hell of it. I see art in the faces that stare blankly,to flicker at screens in store windows,art in the glow of the cigarette end,in the bending of imagination, where salvation is palmed off to an ungrateful nation as corn from the candyclouds,art in the female,the he man, the mail man,the banter of cantors,the whispers of sisters the sadness,the badness,the joy and the gladness is there, out looking to share,insiders, outsiders,lone wolfstate riders and in pairs or in threes all looking to please, street paintings,feint bread lines on fences,dull brush strokes on brickstock unlock your mind find your art.
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Jun 7, 2014
Jun 7, 2014 at 8:22 AM UTC
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It is art that oils the moving parts of me the free flowing nectar in the seed of me, art in ******* tips and the half full skips, the 'tramps' that ship the coal around the coast. I play host to the wonder of words that make up the rhyme, more 'fog on the Tyne' the lowlands and highlands within these Islands and bridges to cross, It is art in the heart and what we see with the eyes,love it,despise it,ignore or get wise to it, everywhere I look, I see that someone took time,moulded , transformed it and changed forever this world a bit and every bit helps. My fingers are lazers ,blazing out art,starting to burn in every sentence that turns and turning to light, gutters that utter to me prophecies and in the pharisees I see only samaritans who give salute to the pimps and the prostitutes,the Kings and the courtiers,those who buy and who sell,who are milled in the gin of it,the thin and the quick of it,tied to the wheel in the cockpit and spitting out what could be me for the hell of it. I see art in the faces that stare blankly,to flicker at screens in store windows,art in the glow of the cigarette end,in the bending of imagination, where salvation is palmed off to an ungrateful nation as corn from the candyclouds,art in the female,the he man, the mail man,the banter of cantors,the whispers of sisters the sadness,the badness,the joy and the gladness is there, out looking to share,insiders, outsiders,lone wolfstate riders and in pairs or in threes all looking to please, street paintings,feint bread lines on fences,dull brush strokes on brickstock unlock your mind find your art.
john-edward-smallshaw
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john-edward-smallshaw
70/English
Jun 7, 2014
Jun 7, 2014 at 8:22 AM UTC
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